


Orlando

by rowanthestrange_yugihell



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Brief Mention Of Old Friends, Crossdressing, Gen, Trans Doctor, Trans Twelve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-27
Updated: 2018-11-27
Packaged: 2019-09-01 11:56:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16764661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rowanthestrange_yugihell/pseuds/rowanthestrange_yugihell
Summary: “Vain trifles as they seem, clothes have, they say, more important offices than to merely keep us warm. They change our view of the world and the world's view of us.”In which the Doctor dresses up for her own enjoyment. Sort of.





	Orlando

* * *

  


The Doctor holds the skirt up doubtfully, wondering if there’s any point in trying it on.

It’s longer than knee length, slightly flowery, and too thin to protect against sparks and slips and stabs.

But it does feel very fun to spin around in. She remembers that.

There’s no prickle of shame at the memory any more. Just a sort of lingering sadness. She knows she exists as she does because of the weight on someone else’s shoulders, and she wouldn’t change it. But it’s still sad.

‘Try it on then.’ Comes the whisper in the back of her mind. 

Her old self isn’t quite the same as she used to be. Quieter. More encouraging than demanding. Softer.

It’s one of those things that science says cannot happen, and any mention of the phenomenon would send a particular old friend of hers into a contemptuous three-day rant. The brain is utterly destroyed and re-formed, there are no lingering echoes, no ghosts, if there is a new personality there can be no remnant of the old, “And thanks for coming to my TED Talk.” The Doctor finishes aloud. 

But sometimes it happens anyway, so yah, boo, and sucks to you.

Probably some sort of a placebo effect, a mental formation based on what she expects. A story she’s telling herself. A way of creating emotional closure over the trauma of sudden existence from another’s annihilation.

‘Go on.’ Whispers the voice, pulling her back to the now with its hint of anticipation.

But then why change her old self so much? Her mental formation would sound strong and normal and healthy. Not like a tired old woman by a window, peacefully looking out while her body goes through its final failures.

The Doctor kicks off her trousers and shimmies on the skirt. Muscle memory takes over the procedure. Muscle memory that of course she doesn’t have, and that’s not even what muscle memory _is_ , and blah, blah, blah, have you considered taking up a hobby Ushas, we’ll buy you an ant farm.

“That’s probably where it all went wrong for her.” The Doctor says idly. The ghost doesn’t reply, just waits for her to try her clothes on properly.

The Doctor smooths the skirt and feels a little weird. Underwear too close to display. It’s breezy and tickles her knees. She’s not ruling skirts or dresses out entirely for the future, but it might take a bit of time to get used to that sort of outerwear.

Even her last self didn’t wear it in _public_.

The Doctor steps in front of the mirror. It definitely doesn’t go with her top, and while she’s been dabbling with skin exposure, it’s still strange to see that much naked leg.

It occurs to her that it’s never been seen like this before. Knows the last Doctor found it was easier to do this sort of thing when she couldn’t see herself. Blindness had its perks. 

The ghost sits there like a grandmother waiting for her granddaughter to try her gift. The Doctor imagines so, anyway. Not like she’s ever actually had a grandparent who gave her anything other than nightmares. But she’s seen movies. And been a grandfather. More or less.

To be agreeable, the Doctor spins on her toe, and almost slides over in her socks. The skirt lifts in a whimsical, but non-underwear-revealing sort of way, and she feels a secondhand glow of joy. 

After a few more goes, the feeling fades, and she’s left with her own slight giddiness from the spinning, but little else. A bit of probing yields nothing, the ghost having just slipped away at some point in her happiness. 

The Doctor breathes out slowly to calm the nausea, steps out of the skirt, and starts looking for where she pinged her braces.

Maybe one day the ghost will come back. (Yes, she will come back. Until then, just go forward-)

The Doctor shakes her head. Why are they in the fruit bowl? Why does the wardrobe even have a fruit bowl?

Maybe she’ll paint her nails, put on makeup, or try to sing like she isn’t a fox trapped in a recycling bin, and then the ghost will come back, just to sit and watch again. 

Or maybe not. And it really _is_ just a complex form of emotional closure, that’s now run its course.

She grabs a snack from the bowl and squashes her feet into the boots because she can’t be bothered to bend and do it properly, wiggling them until they fit. Yep, she’s still feeling trousers for now. But always options for the future.

The Doctor hums in satisfaction, and wipes the pear juice from her chin.

After all, change can definitely be a good thing.

  



End file.
